08   i paint them out, i paint them in again

Mercy refuses to be rattled. Restless and burning, Monmouth Manufacturing is the the calm before the storm. Gansey is a whirlwind, 48 hours of intense energy coursing through his veins and a plethora of notes spread across the floor by his bed and Mercy's blow up mattress. The redhead is lounging, spread paper thin across the Monmouth's new leather couch that Gansey bought earlier on a whim, along with two new window air conditioners, a pool table and a sonar device. She doesn't dare go near the pool table where Ronan had already broodily beat Mercy in very few, quick moves. Her hand rests on her empty chest, pressing calloused fingers into her jumper-covered sternum. Mercy's waiting for the lightning to strike; the thunder already rumbling through Ronan's speakers.

          "Now do you feel better?" Adam dryly asks.

          "I have no idea what you're talking about," Gansey replies.

          "Hey man," Ronan leans against the couch, "I like the pool table."

Mercy makes a noise. "Of course you do."

          "Soreloser." Ronan coughs into his fist.

But Blue looks less than pleased with the situation, hair almost bristling with her frustration. Tiny hands curled into fists, she looks indignant. "There are children staring in the streets of Chicago. Three species go extinct every hour because there's no funding to protect them. You are still wearing those incredibly stupid boat shoes, and of all the things that you have bought you still haven't replaced them!"

Mercy's eyes flick down to Gansey's shoes, nose wrinkling. Looking away, she brings her sunglasses down onto her nose and tucks her hands into her denim shorts. It's hot, sweat sticking to her back and arms, but she can't find the energy to peel her jumper from her suffocated skin just yet.

          "I like these shoes!" Gansey shoots back. He's frazzled, running a hand through his brown hair.

          "Sometimes I hate you," Blue says. "And Orla, of all people!"

Alongside the plethora of things that Gansey had bought in his fatigued state, he'd hired a boat, a trailer and a truck to pull it with, all sitting outside Monmouth's doors. The rental truck required somebody over 21 and according to him, the trip required a psychic. Orla makes the perfect candidate. Platform sandals, orange bikini top and bell-bottoms, Orla had winked at Mercy as she stood in the threshold. It took everything for Mercy to not close the door on her face.

          "We should get moving," Gansey says. "It's only going to get hotter."

This spurs Mercy into movement, peeling her jumper from her body and letting it fall to her air mattress. The bruises around her neck have almost faded, barely even visible. She feels safe enough to wear a sleeveless crop top to the boat, but still naked without the weight around her neck. Mercy shoves her phone into her back pocket, hands holding onto her headphones. Her smile is glistening, feral and loose.

          "Let's rock and roll, kids." She says. "We have mystical things to find."

Striding out the door of Monmouth, Ronan walks in front of her, harsh and the coldest thing in the summer heat. It rolls over Mercy like waves, a welcomed distraction from the ache in her chest. She adjusts her sunglasses and pulls her headphones over her ears. Mercy doesn't follow Adam, Gansey and Blue to the rental truck where Orla sits in the front seat. She takes her place in the passenger seat of the BMW, earning an irritated noise from deep within Ronan's throat. But Mercy isn't listening. 

The drive flies by. Mercy finds herself on the boat in the middle of a man-made lake. A dirt-like smell lingers, sticking to her clothes like sweat, and in the distance crows screech unholy noises to Chainsaw. She caws back as angry and jarring as her counterpart. Gansey is hunched in front of a laptop, trying feebly to make it and his sonar device work. King's have little luck with technology, so she refuses to go near it. Ronan, in his Irish-pale skin glory lazes beside Gansey, unfavourable to the summer heat. Blue, still simmering, crowds Mercy's space in her mismatched tank tops and bleached cargo shorts. The redhead's chin is tipped to the sky, soaking in the suns rays, similarly to Orla's stretched figure which takes up the most space on the boat. She's missed the warmth of a sunny day, too busy to stop and rinse herself in it.

          "Would you like to explain, now, why we're in the middle of this puddle?" Adam asks.

          "Godforsaken puddle." Ronan corrects.

          "We're looking under it." Gansey says.

          "Helpful," Mercy mumbles more to herself than anyone.

Her headphones are on the boat's floor, dead after Chainsaw bit through the cord. There's nothing to distract her from the noises or the pulsing of the ley line underneath her skin. It's stronger, the further from Siken Lane and Henrietta she gets. The further into forests and wilderness that Mercy treks. The connection flickers like an open flame, dancing and licking at her bruised skin. She doesn't have the energy to address Illusion, who grins and waves from beside the laptop. Mercy ignores them, sliding her sunglasses over her eyes.

Blue sits up, and biting says, "Are we going to sonar every lake on the ley line? Or just the ones that piss you off?"

          "This is a pilot mission," Gansey responds. "Odds suggest that Glendower's not under this lake. But I want to have recourse should we find a body of water we suspect he's under."

          "Recourse." Ronan echoes. Chainsaw caws, claws clacking against the boat's floor. Painting him like a young god, the water reflects an image of sunlight across his face. He's translucent, mighty. "Shitdamn, it's hot."

          "Amen." Mercy waves a tired hand in the air.

Illusion catches her eye as Ronan reaches through them, pulling out the cable to the laptop and plugging it in a different way. It didn't make a difference "Is it possible that you've bought a sixty-five-hundred-dollar piece of junk?"

          "I'm having a psychic moment," Orla says from the deck. "It involves you and me."

          "Were you talking to me or Ronan?" Gansey replies, distracted.

          "Either." She brings her sunglasses down her nose. "I'm flexible."

Mercy slides hers into her red-hair, eyebrow raised coolly. "How flexible?"

Orla's lip quirks and Blue makes a terrible noise.

          "I would appreciate if you'd turn your inner eye toward the water," Gansey says. "Because — goddamnit, Ronan, that made the screen go black."

          "How long are we in D.C. for?" Adam asks, out of the blue.

Gansey answers, attention still fixated on the laptop. "Three days."

Mercy looks over. Illusion wiggles their fingers. She scowls, gripping the string between them and pulling it so viciously that they stumble backwards, slipping from the seat and onto the boat floor. There's a ghostly thump. Illusion dusts themselves off with their handkerchief before disappearing. Orla's head snaps over, looking between the space and Mercy, but the others don't take notice. The King girl smiles jaggedly, sliding her sunglasses back over her eyes. The laptop flicks on.

          "You brilliant bastard!" Gansey crows, Ronan's hand covering the cable. But it hadn't moved. "You've done it. What did you do?"

Ronan looks at Mercy. "Got tired of sweating is what I did. Let's look under this damn lake and get back into air-conditioning. Oh, don't even, Parrish."

Adam looks unimpressed. "I didn't say anything."

          "Don't think you need too," Mercy snipes.

          "Whatever, man," Ronan replies, ignoring Mercy. "I know that face. You were born in hell, you're used to it."

          "Ronan Lynch." Gansey says.

Ronan closes his mouth. Mercy lets herself sink into the silence. She nearly pulls her headphones over her ears, but remembers the headphone's dying battery and makes a noise of contempt. Only Blue pays her mind from the spot next to her. She doesn't say anything. Mercy presses her back onto the boat floor and lets herself drown in the energy, the waves of the Ley Line falling over her. The surrounding world becomes a murmur. It's like she's drowning underneath it all. Until she's pulled roughly to the surface by Orla's grating voice.

          "I'm having a psychic moment." She says, commanding the attention of the boat.

Blue scoffs.

          "No, really." Orla opens her eyes. "Is there something on the screen now?"

Gansey studies the screen keenly. He seemingly finds something, making a noise of victory.

Blue leans over the edge of the boat, rocketing it as Mercy sits up. The Sargent girl narrows her eyes, peering at the brown water. "How deep is the water here?"

          "It should say," Gansey squints at the screen. He finds it after a moment. "Ten feet."

          "Well, then." Blue's sandals slap against Orla's bare belly.

Mercy raises a brow, lips quirked. "Brave soul."

          "What!" Gansey protests. "You can't go in."

          "I actually can," Blue replies. She twists her curls in a small ponytail on the back of her head. Some fall from the hold. "I really, really can."

          "Here." Mercy stands, careful not to rock the boat. She approaches Blue from behind, leaning down to take two colourful clips from her hair. Mercy clips back the falling pieces, Blue's hair soft against her fingertips and grins. Against her ear, she whispers. "So it doesn't all fall out while you're down there. Can't have the bravest of us falling to pieces."

Gansey's expression shifts. "You won't be able to open your eyes in that. Without irritating them."

          "Your highly cultured eyes, maybe." Blue snaps. She peels off her first tank top, tossing it on top of Orla as well. Behind her, Mercy steps back from the firing line. "My swamp eyes'll be great."

The boat rocks beneath the group's feet, moving off-kilter as Orla stands suddenly. She's a sweeping force of feigned salvation, gazing upon the teens with a dramatic gaze and her orange bikini shocking in the sunlight. Mercy watches, eyes catching the strip of skin before moving upwards.

          "Stop, Blue. I'll do it." Orla orders. "You're wearing clothing. I have a bikini."

          "None of us can forget." Blue is vivid and ferocious, arms crossed against her chest.

Smile bright and inviting, Orla's hair whips as she tears her bellbottoms from her legs, revealing the second-half of her orange nylon bikini. The boys fall silent. Mercy following in suit with raised brows, no quarrels with staring as Orla turns to look at her. Blue makes a noise, contempt etching itself into her expression. Mercy shares a glance with Ronan, he raises a brow.

          "Fuck no. I'm not getting in there." She says. He shakes his head. Mercy sticks out her tongue. "I'm an asthmatic, asshole."

          "Oh, for the love of God." Blue says, and jumps out of the boat.

Mercy snorts, and Ronan laughs, chest shaking with the sheer force of his amusement. Chainsaw launches herself from the boat floor, circling where Blue jumped in as he continues to laugh. It breaks the veil over both Adam and Gansey's eyes, both still slightly dazed. Blue Sargent is a formidable little thing. Mercy's snort breaks into giggles, sunglasses falling from her head and hands flailing to catch them. Orla's waves from cannonballing into the lake ripple against the boat.

          "Is this really happening?" Adam says.

Mercy chokes on her laughter. She folds her sunglasses, stuffing them into Blue's bag.

          "I feel rather ashamed." Gansey admits.

Moving around Adam and the pile of clothes, Mercy pats Gansey's head. "It's okay Gansey Boy, we understand."

Ronan runs a hand over his shaved head. "I didn't want to mess up my hair."

Mercy lets out another bark of laughter, animated and lively. She can't help but grin. Her cracked lips hurt, peeling from how much she's bitten them. But Mercy doesn't care. This is the most she's felt real since the nightmare. There's a splash in the water. Orla reemerges, wading on her back. She doesn't seem in a hurry, hands behind her head and hair fanning out like dark kelp.

          "It's too dark." Her eyes are closed. The sun shines down on her, golden against the murky water. "But it's nice and cool. Y'all should come in."

Mercy shakes her head, leaning over the boat edge to peer into the darkness. There's no sign of Blue yet. Gansey looks over beside her, worried and fingers white against the boat's edge as he clutches it. Blue breeches the surface a moment later, rippling the boat again. Mercy reaches out a hand, taking Blue's wet hand in her own and pulling her onto the boat with all her might. They both stumble as Blue lands, spitting brown water onto Gansey's boat shoes. Mercy cringes.

          "Good God." He says.

          "Now they're really boat shoes." Blue's grin is mirthful, swinging her free arm to toss her prize onto the floor. Chainsaw nudges it with her beak. "There's something else down there. I'm going back for it."

She's back in the water before Gansey can stop here, but it's only another moment before she returns with two more things. Blue breaks from the depths again, hooking her elbow over the edge and this time Adam pulling her to safety. She tosses one of the objects to the ground, the other she passes to Mercy quietly. Her chest heaves, out of breath.

          "What's the first thing?" Blue asks, sucking in a breath. "Do you know?"

Gansey takes it from Ronan, studying it under a careful eye. He runs his thumb over the uneven edge with child-like wonder. "It's a boss or an umbo. For a shield. This bit reinforced the middle of the shield. The rest of it must've rotted away. It would've been wood and leather, probably."

          "So, it's ancient." Blue says from the other end of the boat.

          "Right."

Mercy steps forward, tucking the third object under her arm and studies the shield part. She traces it's roundness, pressing her finger into the worn out places and indentations. In the middle, there's a small crown carved into the metal. She pales. Taking the shield boss from Gansey's hands and ignoring his protests, Mercy holds it closer to her face. The study confirms her suspicions: it's the King family crest.

          "That's my family crest," she says quietly. Mercy points to it, holding it under the sunlight for Gansey to see. "Right there in the centre."

          "What does that mean?" Blue asks.

Mercy shrugs. "I don't know much about us. Only that we're Welsh and came to here a long time ago with Glendower. We were advisors or something like that."

          "That would've been useful information." Gansey says.

Mercy levels him with an iron gaze. "You didn't ask. I told you to ask the right questions."

Blue rolls her eyes, gesturing to the thing leaning against her thighs. "What about this?"

          "Well, that's a wheel off the Camaro." Gansey answers simply.

Mercy makes a noise in the back of her throat. The metal is worn, hundreds of years old, lumpy and discoloured from deterioration. The Chevrolet logo is decrepit, morphed from the years of wasting away. It doesn't look out of place next to the shield boss.

          "Do you remember losing one a little while ago?" Ronan asks. "Like, five hundred years or so?"

          "We know the ley line messes with time." Gansey replies swiftly.

          "That's an understatement." Mercy says. Gansey gestures in questioning to the thing tucked underneath her arm. She brings it out, careful of the broken glass. The hollow, broken sphere looks exactly like the snow globe that Mercy pulled from her dreams for Noah. It drips of water. "It's the snow globe I pulled for Noah."

          "You're a dreamer?" Adam asks, confused.

Exasperated, Mercy turns and narrows her eyes at him, sneering. "Keep up, Parrish, you wouldn't want to be left behind."

Blue bristles, and Gansey waves a hand between them. "Mercy."

Sighing, Mercy heeds the warning. "I don't know how it's here. Maybe Noah dropped it while he was somewhere. We don't know what he does when he isn't with us."

Gansey hums.

          "I think you should leave these with me while you go to your mom's this weekend." Blue says. "And I'll see if I can convince Calla to do her thing on them." 

Blue's words signal the end of the expedition. It isn't long before the boat is turned back to shore, hitched onto the trailer and attached to the truck with Orla in the front seat. Mercy returns herself to Ronan's passenger seat, sunglasses still in Blue's bag and headphones sticking to the back of her neck with sweat. Ronan flicks on the stereo, and they drive away.

After Ronan pulls into Monmouth Manufacturing, Mercy piles into her pale blue truck, throwing her duffle bag into the boot with promises of returning the next day. Wrapped in a familiar jumper, warmth bleeds into her bones not just from the setting sun but from comfort. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging from her open window, she breathes in and feels herself relax for the first time in days. As polarising as Siken Lane is, it's home. Monmouth has been kind to her, but she's itching for new clothes and her familiar room. Even if it's just for the night.

Mercy's keys clank, metal hitting against metal, as she pulls them from the ignition and stuffs them in the pocket of her jumper. She's rolled in beside her mother's car—parking in front of an old shed that holds a plethora of never used eco-friendly pots that her mom had tried to create in Mercy's youth. The exceptionally large hole in the bottom and gnashing teeth swallow all plants except weeds whole means they're virtually unusable as anything except for bins. Everything that Circe King dreams is destined to be monstrous. That's what happens when you overindulge in your abilities as a King woman. Mercy frowns, the door is unlocked. Fly screen hitting against the house, she kicks it to the side, holding it open as she shoves her way into the house. The white door always jams, bottom corner getting stuck on the frame. It takes years of practice to find the right angle to kick at, and the right amount of strength. Mercy has perfected it.

She doesn't call for her mom, stepping through the threshold. Mercy has no interest in her, just the safety of her tiny room upstairs and the open window. Taking the stairs two steps at a time, she quietly closes her door behind her. Mercy's room is small, all painted white besides a mural of the galaxy on her ceiling. It was a rare moment of softness for Mercy and Circe King the day that was painted—streaks of purple and grey running through red-hair, Mercy on Circe's shoulders and her tongue poked out in concentration. That died a long time ago.

Throwing away her headphones, Mercy spends the next half-an-hour pattering around her room. She takes a new pair from her drawers. Her duffle bag goes on her bed, closet door wide open and her window pushed up. For once, it's free of Illusion's looming presence. She relishes it while she can. The stairs creak, and Mercy looks up. She pauses, halting stuffing her duffle bag with clothes.

          "Mom?" Mercy calls out, anxiously. "That you?"

Stepping away from her bed, Mercy doesn't get to push open her door. Circe King is a formidable woman, even more frightening to stand in front of as her daughter. The last time she'd seen her was at St Agnes the day she broke her phone. Her chest burns, empty and hollow and Mercy tips her head in a reserved greeting.

          "Mercy," Circle says curtly.

Mercy smiles, it's limp and a forgery. "Is there something you need?"

Circe moves further into her room, eyes flickering to Mercy's phone where it sits next to her headphones. "I see you dreamt yourself something new."

          "You told me to fix it." Mercy narrows her eyes, a challenge. "So I did."

Circe hums. The shadows of Mercy's room seem to grow in her presence. They're the same as the never-ending maze within her dreams, wickedness and a vacuum for the naive. Awkwardness holds potently in the air, and Mercy shuffles her feet, looking between Circe and her duffle bag.

          "If I asked you to—"

          "No," Mercy cuts her off. "I'm not interested."

Circe snarls. "You don't even know what I was asking of you, girl. And I am your mother."

          "I don't care." Mercy snaps. Her phone rings, it's Gansey. She picks it up, ignoring the protests of Circe and holds it to her ear. "Gansey Boy, it's only been a few hours. Miss me that much?"

          "Monmouth's been broken into." He says.

          "Any idea who?" Mercy asks.

Gansey's silent for a moment before his voice slips through the speakers. "Kavinsky."

Mercy's spine goes ramrod straight, her tone turns cold. "I'll be right there."

She hangs up without another word, stuffing her phone into her pocket and zipping up her bag. Swiping her keys from her bedside table, Mercy goes to step past her mom but a hand on her wrist stops her. Circe's grip is unyielding, white-knuckled and bruising.

          "Where are you going?" She questions hotly. "We're talking about this."

          "I'm getting away from you." Mercy snaps.

She knocks her mother's shoulder as she leaves and slams the door behind her.